


Le Petit Soldat

by Readaholics_Anonymous



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Bad French, Character Study, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 04:43:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14417928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Readaholics_Anonymous/pseuds/Readaholics_Anonymous
Summary: The enemy have pushed the French and English forces to the sea. Surrounded and outgunned, they regroup at Dunkerque to make one last stand.The French will hold the enemy off long enough for the English to evacuate, and then follow, should fate be willing.One thing is certain, there will be no victory here.





	Le Petit Soldat

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [hightide2018](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/hightide2018) collection. 



> Prompt: Gibson's past until he joins the French military, and how he ended up finding the original Gibson and taking his identity.
> 
> Title: "The Little Soldier"  
> Based off the "The Little Prince" by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. Not really a war story, but an excellent commentary of the human condition, and the only piece of Quality (tm) French literature I can claim to have read. 
> 
> An apology to the entire country of France: For my pigin French.

_St. Pierre takes a long drag from a crumpled cigarette, the smoke floats out of him in a long, grey ghost._

  _“We're fucked.” He remarks tonelessly._

_His words go ignored by the small group of soldiers huddled behind a makeshift barricade. St. Pierre has been saying the same thing all week, each time a little less anxiously, and with a little more conviction.  
Philippe shifts his grip on his rifle. He longs to slap the bastard, he hates his hang-dog face and his somber, rasping voice. But he is telling the truth, he could at least begrudge a man that. _

_\----_

_**The enemy have pushed the French and English forces to the sea. Surrounded and outgunned, they regroup at Dunkerque to make one last stand.**_  

 _**The French will hold the enemy off long enough for the English to evacuate, and then follow, should fate be willing.** _

_**One thing is certain, there will be no victory here.** _

 ----

Dunkerque at dawn is unnaturally still, as if the whole world was holding its breath. The soldiers are already awake and moving, grimacing at the sky, rifles clenched. Enemy attacks typically come at dawn and they were on high alert. But they are all looking up, no-one notices when a single soldier breaks rank and heads into the dunes. 

Philippe scurries down the beach, moving from cover to cover, the waves masking his footsteps. He halts from time to time, testing the air like a rabbit. He is looking for something, or rather, someone.

An English soldier, _le Tommy,_ lies face down in the sand. Dead soldiers are no rare sight, but this one seems to have died cleanly. So cleanly in fact, Philippe has to nudge him with the toe of his boot to make sure he’s not just sleeping. 

No, definitely dead. 

Casting a fugitive glance over his shoulder, he picks up the body by the armpits and drags it far into the dunes, leaving only a snail’s-trail in the sand, soon to be trampled over by numerous, anonymous boots.  
There, out of sight from prying eyes, Philippe grits his teeth and sets to work. It’s no easy task, wrestling the clothes off a stiff, heavy corpse, by the time he’s finished, the sky is pink and his breathing is ragged.  
He puts on his new uniform and rubs his hands furiously on his trousers, trying to scrub away the feeling of cold, clammy flesh. Still, the memory of it lingers. It will linger for a long time.

“Je suis désolé.” Whispers Philippe to the dead man.

The dead man does not reply.

Philippe shivers and crosses himself. Desecrating a corpse…had he stooped so low? What would Mama think of him?

 _“If this works, I can go home and ask her myself.”_ Philippe thinks grimly, tucking the English dog-tags into his shirt, the metal is cold from sitting on a dead man’s chest, it burns against his skin.

He picks up his shovel and starts to dig.


End file.
